Alarm Call

Chapter 33

‘Oz, I truly do not understand what you’re saying to me.’

I hadn’t gone in swinging when I’d phoned the lieutenant, but I was ready to if it came to it. I repeated Prim’s words, exactly. ‘That’s what she said,’ I insisted, ‘and for once in her life I don’t think she was lying.’

‘Then I can’t think what she means.’

The certainty in his voice was as great as hers had been; I was puzzled. I scratched around for anything else to tell him, and then I came up with something to ask. ‘Does the name Nicky Johnson mean anything to you?’

There was a pregnant silence, which eventually gave birth to one softly uttered word. ‘Fuck.’ It wasn’t what I’d expected from an upright God-fearing Midwesterner.

‘It has to be Marcie,’ he murmured.

‘Who’s Marcie?’

‘My sister.’

It’s funny how you can overlook little things at first, then see how they fall perfectly into place. In mystery novels, they call them clues. When Mark Kravitz had told me about the obituary of John the First, he had said that Paul was the oldest of three children.

‘Her name’s Marcela,’ he went on. ‘If Paul was the black sheep of our family, I suppose you could call her the black ewe. She was just as much of a nonconformist as him, so they always bonded. She didn’t have any talent of her own, so she basked in his. When he left, she went with him, and she’s drifted around California ever since.’

‘So you’ve kept in touch with her?’

‘I’ve made it my business always to know where she is.’

‘What do you talk about?’

‘Her life, what she’s doing, anything but Paul. . I’ve always made it clear that he was a forbidden subject. Given what I know now, she really did take me at my word.’

‘Where does Johnson come in?’

‘She’s been living with him, on and off, for years. They met through Paul, and they developed this thing; half the time she hates him, but she can’t let him go.’

‘Have you ever met him?’

‘Hell, no. I haven’t seen Marcie since Dad died, far less got to know her lovers. What’s he done, this guy?’

‘He’s the man who’s been impersonating Paul. When the passport agency runs down his application, they’ll find his photograph on file.’

‘I should have worked that out for myself,’ he muttered into the phone. ‘Some detective, huh? Where is he now?’

‘On the run from Las Vegas Metro Police, on a date-rape charge, and from me, for other things. I think he’s gone to your sister. I think that’s where Tom is too, with her. I need you to help me find her.’

‘I should give any information I have to Metro. You know that, don’t you, Oz?’

‘Yes. All I’m asking is that we run him to ground before you do that.’

I expected him to hesitate, but he didn’t. ‘Date rape?’ he murmured. ‘Get a flight to San Francisco, and hire a car. Meet me at the information desk in the main terminal, five o’clock tonight.’

I delivered Prim back into the care of the Gradis, then booked myself on to an afternoon America West flight to San Francisco … I thought about using Troy Hawkins again but that would have been pushing it. . and another S-type from Hertz, with a navigation system, of course. I’d no idea where I was being taken, so I expected it to come in handy.

I went down to the arcade and bought myself a light bag. I packed enough for a one-night stay, told Everett where I was going and set off for McCarron. The flight was delayed by almost an hour, but that still left me enough time to pick up the car, park it and be at the information desk in the domestic terminal for five.

John Wallinger the Second was flustered when he arrived, towing a medium-sized case behind him. I’d no idea how he’d travelled from Santa Fe, but it must have been tortuous.

As we retrieved the Jag from the park and drove out of the airport, John gave me an address. ‘Fourteen-ten Cabrillo Highway South, Half Moon Bay.’

I entered it into the system’s data bank and let it take over; I had no idea where I was going, or even in which direction. I just did as I was told, taking Interstate 280 until it was time to turn on to Highway 92 West, a twisty road that reminded me of Scotland in parts. We weren’t on it for long, though, only about eight miles, before I was ordered to take a left turn on to Cabrillo Highway.

We almost drove past the place we were after; I’ll swear the system shouted at me to stop. I pulled up at the side of the road and looked at it. There was a big sign outside that read ‘Cameron’s Pub and Inn’, and had a Union Jack emblazoned across it. Just in case anyone didn’t get the message, there was a red telephone box in the front, and a couple of genuine old-fashioned London double-decker buses parked outside.

‘You sure?’ I asked John.

‘This is what Marcie said last time I spoke to her. If she’d moved on she’d have told me.’

I cruised into the car park and we jumped out. If Johnson was looking for us we’d be easy to spot out there, so we got ourselves under cover, sharpish. There was a shop just inside the door; even at a glance I noticed that it sold mainly British products. The pub itself had God knew how many beers on tap, around twenty I reckoned.

There were a few early-evening customers in and a couple of people behind the bar but one of them was the boss, for sure. He was a massive bloke and had that air about him. He clocked us as from out of town straight away; not too difficult since John still wore his Minneapolis suit and I had on another Paul Smith shirt that was definitely not from around those parts.

‘Gentlemen,’ he greeted us. ‘I’m Cameron Palmer; welcome to our pub. What can I get you?’

‘Probably a pint, eventually, but first we’re looking for someone.’

He didn’t back off at all. ‘Yes?’ he said. ‘Who would that be?’

‘My sister,’ John told him. ‘I believe she’s staying here. Her name’s. .’

‘Marcie?’

‘That’s right, Marcie Wallinger.’ He dug out his detective badge and showed it to Cameron.

‘Sure, Marcie’s a guest. She and little Tom are in one of our B and B rooms. . that’s bed and beverage.’ He laughed. ‘We don’t do breakfast, I’m afraid. Let me take you along there.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘but before you do, can you tell us, is there a guy with her?’

He frowned. ‘Not as far as I know, but I can’t be sure. My wife and I have been away for a few days. We only got back last night.’ He called along to the barman. ‘You happen to know if Marcie’s got a fella with her?’ The guy gave him a ‘don’t ask me’ shrug.

We let Cameron lead the way to a small wing at the side of the pub and restaurant. I walked behind him up to a door with ‘3’ printed on it. ‘This one has a private shower and bathroom,’ he announced. ‘It’s best for Marcie with the little boy.’

‘I’m sure.’

‘I’ll leave you to say hello then,’ he said, rapping the door with a ham-sized hand, before turning and walking away.

As I waited, I heard a sound from inside; this wasn’t the sort of place that needed spyholes, so there wasn’t one. The door opened with a slight creak.

I looked past the woman who held it ajar. He was there inside: Nicky Johnson, ne John Nichols, standing in front of the bed, as if frozen. I’d only met the guy once, but my mind’s eye put a beard, Ray-Bans and a wee blue hat on him, and I knew I’d seen him a couple of times after that.

My residual paranoia from San Francisco made it occur to me afterwards that if he’d had a gun I would have been in trouble; I think the odds against being shot twice in a week and surviving are quite long.

He didn’t have a gun, though. He stared back at me, he saw the look in my eyes and he knew that he was a dead man. So he did what the Nicky Johnsons of this world are always liable to do: he weighed up the fight-or-flight options for a micro-second, then dived through the open window. . … and landed in the arms of big John Wallinger, who’d positioned himself there to guard against precisely that circumstance. I smiled as the sound of a fugitive being vigorously restrained floated back into the pleasant room.

‘Hi, Marcie,’ I said, gently. ‘I’m Oz.’

She nodded. ‘I know who you are.’

‘That’s your brother John outside,’ I told her, ‘beating the crap out of your boyfriend. I’m afraid he’s wanted in Las Vegas for a fairly nasty rape, involving narcotics. He’s going back there too; there’s extradition between here and Nevada, as I’m sure you’ll know. I’m sorry we’re not meeting under happier circumstances.’

‘Me too,’ she replied, sadly. ‘I could guess there was trouble, the way he turned up in the middle of the night.’

I looked around the room. I could see a kid’s bed but no kid. ‘Where’s Tom?’ I asked.

She was about to answer, but at that moment, a door on the right swung open and a child ran in from a sunny porch to the side of the main room. But this boy wasn’t a year old: he was big and sturdy and looked to be at least three.

‘Hello,’ he greeted me, looking up at me with the uncomplicated innocence of childhood, through blue eyes, set in a fresh face, beneath a mop of dark hair. ‘Who’re you?’

I looked down at him, and as I did, I experienced what I swear to you was, still is, and always will be, the most unexpected and, somehow, terrifying moment of my life.

I looked down at him: in that little figure, I saw someone I recognised from photographs taken way back in my past, around thirty-five years back, in fact. In an instant, I knew everything: there was no thought process involved, I just knew everything. I waited until I had mastered my shock, and until my heart rate had returned to something like normal, then I knelt down beside him.

‘Tom,’ I answered, trying to keep my voice steady, ‘my name’s Oz. Has your mother ever told you about me, and who I am?’

He beamed. ‘Sure,’ he replied, in an accent that had much of Marcie’s Midwest twang about it. ‘You’re my dad.’